


Pullin' the 'nice guy' card

by dstrider (articulateSeer)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Bad Pick-Up Lines, Harassment, Humanstuck, M/M, cronus is a nice guy lil bitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 07:31:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2991569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/articulateSeer/pseuds/dstrider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat, an angry little politician, decides he needs a break from all the bitchiness of a political argument and goes to a bar in town. Unknowingly, he gets hit on and a hero steps in to save his ass from the trash beside him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pullin' the 'nice guy' card

**Author's Note:**

> sorry
> 
> this sucks
> 
> ive lost the ability to write ehhhhhhh

"I said no."

You came here for a quiet night out, by yourself. Hoping for that one single second of sweet, sweet silence that you can't get around your busy work place. It was kind of ironic, you think now as a group behind you raise the 'hollering' in unison, that you worked in politics. All day, every day it was the same goddamn bullshit they spewed at each other, "TAXES ARE TOO HIGH ," this, and "DID YOU SLEEP WITH MY DAUGHTER? AGAIN?" that. GOD. Can't they all just stop bitching at each other's throats and shut the fuck up for one second. You were the kind of guy in the politics business that everyone...hated. Your views were less than up to their standards, but did you care? Fuck no, as far as you were concerned, you were doing right by the country. You liked your job. You just wish you could do it yourself.

You nursed the glass of something-or-other in your hands, rolling it in your warm palms like it had nothing better to do. Honestly, you had no one what it was. You can't remember what you asked for; as soon as you'd paid for it with a few crumbled up dollar bills, another fucking punter walked up behind you and put his greasy hands on your shoulders. Disgusting. You would have broken his fingers, were it not for 'keeping a low profile'. Whatever. You can't be bothered doing much about it anyway. Happened a lot.

"Why you gotta be like that? Just havin' a chat," the guy said. He was greasy, not literally, but he gave off the vibe of being scum in a landfill; and his voice was going right through you, like an arrow through an apple. It was a familiar feeling.

You wanted to puke on his shoes. His grimy, purple shoes with - are those dress shoes? Jesus save you.

"I said no. Fuck off."

You turned your head to the side, eyeing him from the stool in case he tried anything else. He didn't look violent, if you wanted to leave he wouldn't hit you or anyone else around him, and to be honest, he looked like a wuss. You could take him, you think. If you could be assed. You stared down at a sticky circle on the bar, one of many you noticed. Someone had scrawled various unmentionable messages on the table top, why would someone sink so low as to do that. Who's numbers are they. Why. Your head thumped with a coming headache, but you didn't say anything; just tensed your shoulders and bowed your head. Maybe he'd leave. Maybe everyone would leave, and you can be alone with your brain sores and anger. But the bartender can stay. Someone needs needs to serve you. And they've been somewhat tolerable for the past while.

"I'm tryna' be nice. What? You don't like nice people?" Fucking hell. Is he really pulling the 'nice guy' card? What a fucking loser.

You felt someone sit beside you, an unfamiliar person who had no business being this close to you - are they together? Oh God, you don't think you can take anymore of this bullshit, one more word out of either of them and you're going to start ripping the legs off of the chairs and stuffing them down throats. Preferably your two 'nice guys'. Your sure they'd like that if their act is anything to go by.

"Hey, sweetheart. You okay on your own? Is this guy bothering you? God, I leave you alone for one second and I come back and some guy is hittin' on you already, you're just too darn cute to handle."

You are so confused you can hear the static in your brain. Is he talking to you? Is he talking to the other guy? Fuck, you just wanted to sit on a stool and drink 'til you hear colours - you can't be assed listening to this. Tune out, head down. Being called 'cute' isn't something you hear everyday, but you've gotten...worse comments, in a manner of speaking. It's not that bad.

He talks over your head, directly to the nice guy. You feel him shift uncomfortably beside you, lifting his hands from your shoulders slightly so that you don't feel as uncomfortable as before. You're suddenly aware of the shivers he gave you, down your spine was a cold feeling of disgust. What a creep. Can't you just go out and have a blast without attracting roaches? You steal a look at him while he's not looking down at you, and he's...sunglasses? Inside? Wow. you are suddenly re-evaluating your definition of 'douche'.

"Hey listen asshole, my boyfriend here doesn't like you, and neither do I. We're not interested in your scummy company, so hop on the dirt road and crawl back to the ocean where you belong. But, if you're looking for a 'friend' tonight, your mom is free. Go nuts."

You're dreaming. You must be. You can't even hear anything that makes sense at all right now, it's just a bunch of fart noises and weird static electricity buzzing that may or not be because you've actually had more than one glass. What the fuck kind of night is this turning into. Too bad you don't have friends to tell this to.

Nice guy mumbles something about you 'not being cute anyway' and shambling off to his next victim in the corner. God help the poor girl. Though honestly, by the look of her, he's dead already. You look up, and the guy is still there, not looking at you but instead ordering a drink. You mumble, and raise your voice to above whisper levels. Which wasn't hard for you; you're a politician.

"Thanks," you say, sipping your drink and wincing away from the bitter. What is this? Whiskey?

"My pleasure," He says, whirling around to look at you. Of course he would. Why not. "So, come here often?"

You feel yourself smiling at the lame pick up line, and finally feeling not-so-shitty with your life. Maybe he'll be okay.


End file.
